


Only You Can Be The One

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Goodnight and Billy go to try and find somewhere to sleep for the night. Things go predictably sideways.-Billy’s back was against the wall, the wood bearing the marks of redirected punches. Blood dripped from several of the men’s hands that surrounded him, a shamefaced half circle that parted like the Red Sea as Goodnight drew closer.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	Only You Can Be The One

The warning shot cracked over their heads, bullet digging into the wood with a shower of sawdust. Heads snapped towards the doors, slower than the man would have liked, and his finger tightened reflexively on the trigger once more.  
“I heard,” Goodnight said, striding forward as he carefully lowered his pistol slightly, hand resting at his side, “That people in this town were friendly, good place to eat, good place to recuperate after long weeks of travelling.”  
  
The man behind the bar recoiled from Goodnight’s gaze, his hands, rubbed red raw from a lifetime of hard work, digging into the wooden surface of the bar.  
“Mr Robicheaux, we didn’t- I didn’t-”  
Goodnight cut him off with a wave of his free hand, seeing the man straighten up, jaw closing with an audible click in the deathly hush of the bar.  
  
Billy’s native tongue didn’t come as easily to Goodnight as French or English had, or even the few phrases in the native tribes language that he had picked up.  
“ _Are you hurt_?” Goodnight asked, internally wincing at the way his tongue tripped over the sllyables Billy danced over like water.  
  
Billy’s back was against the wall, the wood bearing the marks of redirected punches. Blood dripped from several of the men’s hands that surrounded him, a shamefaced half circle that parted like the Red Sea as Goodnight drew closer. But he raised his head, hair fallen loose from his hairpin and stuck to his face, sweat and blood matting the dark locks, and grinned.  
  
How could people look at Goodnight, old and weary, dirt engrained into his skin and a lifetime of regrets on his back,and call him an angel when he had Billy at his side, an angel of justice, all sharp angles and a bloodied grin that was almost a snarl?  
  
“ _Just like old times_ ,” Billy answered, the men shifting nervously around him, transformed from lions to sheep.  
  
“Now then,” Goodnight said, letting a hint of his old drawl, his old bravado back into his voice. The men shifted, gazes snapping from their feet, from Billy, to Goodnight reflexively, a note of command in his voice that none of them could resist. Billy carefully slipped through them, elbows tucked close to his sides despite the urge to lash out once more when they weren’t expecting it. This was Goodnight’s play now, and he would follow where he went.  
  
“The way I see it, it’s really not that complicated what we’re gonna do next. You fine folks are going to return to your tables, me and Billy here,” Goodnight clapped Billy on the shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles relax ever so slightly at the signal. “Are going to eat, drink, play some cards and we’ll be gone in the morning.”  
  
It was easy to see when a man was balanced on a knife’s edge, instincts bred into him since birth to distrust those who were different to him, but at the same time, to obey men who looked like Goodnight. The winds were changing, but slowly, ever so slowly, and so their arrangement kept on working.  
  
When they folded, it was all at once, nods and slow mumbles of apology falling from their lips like rain. And the crowd dispersed back to their own tables. Billy relaxed even slower, minutely leaning into Goodnight’s touch as he watched them move away.  
  
“Let’s eat,” Goodnight said, squeezing Billy’s shoulder (you good? Agree it’s over?). Billy patted Goodnight’s hand, skin warm where his gloves didn’t cover. There was blood drying on his knuckles and beneath his nails and Goodnight focused on that small silver of red as he holstered his gun finally, muscle memory guiding his trembling hands.  
  


* * *

  
  
“They’re still watching,” Billy murmured, voice pitched low enough for Goodnight’s ears only as they moved up the stairs towards their hard earned beds.  
“Won them through blood,” Goodnight replied, staring at the wood beneath his feet but not seeing it, the whorls twisting into faces beneath his feet-  
  
He stumbled into the room, aided by a firm push from Billy who kicked the door shut behind them, the noise booming like a gunshot.  
“Hey.”  
Billy’s hands were warm, scratching across the stubble on his cheeks as he raised Goodnight’s head to stare into his eyes. He was breathtaking, blood matting his beard at the corners of his mouth. Billy grinned, a soft sweet smile reserved only for Goodnight. Goodnight breathed out a trembling breath, leaning further into Billy’s touch until their foreheads were pressed together, noses brushing.  
  
“Just us now,” Billy murmured, voice vibrating through them both and Goodnight realised he was clinging onto Billy’s shoulders, a drowning man clinging to his last salvation.  
“It’ll be nice to sleep in a proper bed together,” Goodnight said, the whispers of the dead slowly receeding, the call of the owl moving away. A problem for another night.  
“Only sleep?” Billy asked, tone deliberately light. Goodnight’s lips parted, heat pooling in his stomach.  
  
“I could be tempted,” Goodnight said, voice hoarse. Billy’s laugh, low and rich, took his breath away as the shorter man raised himself up to kiss Goodnight, easy and unhurried. Goodnight pulled Billy closer, hands working blindly at the buckles of his knives, the thoughts of the war and the booming chorus of guns now a thousand miles away.


End file.
